Never Complained
by surprisedreader
Summary: England always found himself at Spain's every July 28th. The day the Spaniards Armada fell. UK/Spain US/UK Spain/Romano.


Ahhh I was not supposed to be working on thissss! I opened my file for Just wanna cook and was working on it when I decided to look at what other unfinished things I had on my computer and found myself working on this instead even though I had only written the first half a paragraph of it! Oh well such is life. Sometimes I have to get other stories out of my head before I can continue on any other ones. Let's hope this is the case with this and I will be able to pump out the next chapter of I just wanna Cook and Learn to Share and Game on with the next couple of weeks. Please read and review! Thanks

"Don't tell Lovi! Please, don't tell Lovi!" The mantra that was always repeated when he showed up. "A-Ah ¡oh, Dios mío! Inglaterra!" England hardly heard the begs anymore. They didn't matter. If Spain really hadn't wanted it he would have fought harder. He would have pulled out that axe he'd been so fond of in their younger years. He would have acted more upset when England showed up every year on the anniversary of the fall of his armada. It didn't matter anyway. England would have had his way no matter what Spain wanted.

He couldn't help himself. It was like and itch under the skin he got whenever the end of May came near. He was long past his pirating days, he no longer had any real issue with Spain.

But he couldn't help it. The yearning to go see Spain would start at the beginning of June. He could normally crush the feeling until the start of July then he would start going up to the attic and looking at all his old seaman clothes. By the 28th there was no stopping him.

"Inglaterra! Por favor! Otra vez!" (England Please! Again!)

The smell of dirt and freshly snapped vines filled his nostrils. It was wrong. The scent was all wrong. He should smell sea salt and water rotting wood. He should smell canon powder and hear seagulls and waves crashing against hull of his own ship. He growled in annoyance and pressed his face into Spain's neck breathing deep. Even that was different from back in 1588. Now he smelt of herbs and bath oils but under that England could catch a whiff of natural Spain. The same scent he always had of sweat and work and sunshine. England bit down in retribution for the newer smells invading his nose when all he wanted was the old.

Spain babbled in rapid fire Spanish making England unable to follow. Not that it mattered. That at least was the same. Even back then Spain had refused to speak English outside of the initial "Don't tell Lovi!". Spain dug his heels in against England's smaller back, arching as he neared his finish. "Por favor por favor por favor! ¡oh, Dios mío! " He clawed at England's arms leaving angry red marks as he came, spilling his seed across both their stomachs. England growled as he found his own completion, leaving his mess inside the Spaniard as he pulled out and lay down next to the other crushing a few more tomato plants.

Together they sat in silence, just the sound of their panting filling the humid air surrounding them. England eyed the bit mark he left on Spain's neck. He could already imagine Romano's red rimmed eyes at the next council meeting. For being such a loud little bastard the Italian never confronted England about his yearly visits. Spain told him once that the younger nation never even asked about them. He just cried and cried for weeks on end, both before and after July 28 came around.

Alfred on the other hand…Alfred would be waiting at the door when England drug his sorry ass home. The taller man's blue eyes would be narrowed dangerously, daring England to try and lie. He never did.

Alfred would drag him into the house and tear off his clothes. He would look over England's bare body as one would when calculating the damages done to a car. Cold, precise.

He would take in every mark Spain left behind and he would store them away in the back of his mind. England wasn't sure what he was saving them all for. He was too afraid to ask. So he let the younger nation do as he pleased, his eyes scanning and his hands touching as a doctor's would when conducting and exam.

Once this was done Alfred's gentleness was at an end. He grabbed the smaller nation up and swept him away in a passionate, sometimes slightly violent reclaiming of what was his.

England never complained. Not when Alfred covered every mark of Spain's with his own. Not when Alfred held him down and used him until they were spent. Not when Alfred walked away to shower and wept before returning to the bed and holding England close despite the fact that he was still filthy.

Alfred never complained either. Not once when England returned from Spain did Alfred ever say one word to beg him to stop.

But how could he when America found himself at Russians door every May 3rd.

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